There was a single event during our five day camping excursion that shook me to my very core.

On day 2, Ganpa and I took Tyler fishing at the lake. Actually, Ganpa took Tyler and I fishing. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve been fishing. Fifteen years, maybe more. In preparation of this trip, Sarah and I previously bought a Spiderman fishing pole for Tyler. It’s got a small plastic fish tied to the line, so there’s no worries of Tyler taking a barbed hook, covered with worm guts, to his own cheek. That being said, there was a worry of him taking a worm-gut covered, barbed hook to his cheek by my inexperienced hand.

Tyler watched Ganpa hook a worm and cast his line, but lost interest pretty quickly in his own fishing pole. He’s a little young still and doesn’t quite have the dexterity to cast or reel a line anyway. Instead, he busied himself by playing in the water, with and around some of the other kids that were there. Ganpa walked twenty feet down the shore to see if he could get any bites out there. I remained with Tyler.

Sarah stopped by a few minutes later. She was halfway through her jog and needed a small rest. We talked for a bit about her run and how things were going, while I fished and watched Tyler play in the water. I told her that Ganpa had caught a bass and that Tyler touched it. I cast my line out again and slowly reeled it in while telling Sarah about the fish.

“JOE! JOE!”

My eyes immediately flicked to Tyler, who was face down in the water, struggling to stand up. I dropped my pole and raced into the water. Not a single thought entered my head. Water soaked through my shoes and splashed up my legs. As I ran, I saw Tyler, head submerged, bring his arm up. A small wave of relief hit me when I saw him move. He put his arm back down, trying to push himself up. His hand broke the plane of the water, giving him no surface with which to push. The five seconds that passed were a parental eternity. I watched as Tyler unsuccessfully tried to lift his head out of the water. My son was effectively blinded and unable to breath. Fear gripped me harder as the resistance of the water slowed my run.

I finally reached Tyler and lifted him out of the water. He looked confused and scared, but otherwise intact. The thinking center of my brain resumed its duties. I set Tyler, feet first, back into the water and put on my happy, “nothing to worry about over here”, face.

“Did you fall down, buddy?”

Still scared, Tyler started crying. I grabbed him by the hand and walked him to shore. Sarah was on the same “don’t let Tyler know how freaked-the-f—-out you are” page and remained calm and passive.

She asked, “Are you okay, TyTy? Do you need a hug from mommy?”

“Yeah.”

As mother and son hugged each other, I mentally started kicking my ass. I looked away for one second. One second! One? Maybe five. Maybe ten. I really just wasn’t sure how long. I remembered then that I can’t swim. What if he was out further? What if he wasn’t breathing? I don’t know CPR. I get the concept, and may be able to “wing it,” but don’t know the proper technique. I forced myself to remain calm. I never want Tyler to have the same fears of water that I have (from a traumatic childhood experience of my own, no less). We comforted Tyler for just a moment, and talked to him about what happened. I knew it was my fault. Sarah knew it was my fault. All the parents on the shore – presumably watching their own kids – knew it was my fault. The truth is, I really didn’t know that I wasn’t paying attention to Tyler at the time. I was enjoying the fishing experience, and talking to Sarah. And Tyler has always just been so… good at everything. He’s big and strong, and he’s got a pretty uncanny sense of balance and awareness that amazes me daily. So, I dropped the ball. I keep telling myself that this is part of parenting. That even though something tragic could have happened, it didn’t.

Mark my words. I will know how to swim before the summer is over.

Is your family important to you? If something were to happen that put the lives of your loved ones in danger, how would you react? It’s not until something really happens that you realize just how important your family is to you and just what you would do to keep them safe.

I swear to you, this is all true.

Sunday night, I slept poorly. It was easily the worst night of sleep I’d had in months. I lay in bed, tired but wide awake, as if there were an energy in the air keeping me awake. I’ve had nights like that before, where my mind was furiously working through a problem that it just couldn’t let go of. That wasn’t the case two nights ago. I simply could not drift off to sleep, and I didn’t know why. I dozed in and out a few times, and finally went downstairs around two in the morning. My head had begun to ache and throb, so I went down for some little white pills and some water. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, aside from the fact that I should have been cycling into a REM sleep cycle. The house was silent.

After swallowing my two pills, I made my way through the dark house and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Back in the bedroom, and under the covers, I settled in and hoped the sandman would visit.

And I lay there, eyes closed but still wide awake. Tired but alert. Again, I was hit with the feeling that there was something in the air, keeping me awake. Soon, I finally began drifting  to sleep. Slowly. Just as I reached that in-between state, the state where we sometimes jerk ourselves awake with a subconscious body spasm, something terrifying happened. I heard somebody in our house. Specifically, I heard a door being shut. A door in my house. The one place where I have an expectation of safety for myself and for my family.

There was no thought. No wondering what I should do, or if I really heard what I know I did. The only thing that ran through my head was “my family.” The next few moments are burned into my memory as a strobe-effect; simply a series of images. The ceiling fan, as my eyes fly open. The bed sheets, in mid-flight, as I rip them away from me. My feet hitting the floor and me pushing off the bed. Delilah taking post at my heel. My hand closing on the door frame. In just one more moment, I will be down the stairs in two jumps, praying that I hit the light switch with my first attempt. Then, I don’t know, but I will protect my family.

In the instant before I pulled myself into the doorway, I remembered something crucial. Earlier this day, my little tyrant of a son learned how to open his own door.

I stepped around the corner to see him standing before me. Innocent. Relief – and fresh anger – swept over me. In the fog of near-sleep, Tyler’s newly acquired skill had been forgotten. Also forgotten was the fact that this was the third or fourth time tonight that he had gotten up. The two main differences were that he was much quieter before, and that Sarah got up those times to put him back to bed. On this particular instance, he opened the door and (I think) accidentally slammed it behind him.

In an angry whisper, I told him, “Get your butt back into bed, right now!” In my head, I added, Jesus Christ, boy, I almost killed you.

“Mommy,” he cried.

“Mommy is making her night nights. You get into your bed, now Tyler!”

As I tucked him in, and my heart slowed back into its normal rhythm, I kissed Tyler’s cheek. “It’s time to sleep, Tyler. You stay in this bed, okay?”

Tyler whispered, “yeah.”

“You do not get out of this bed again, and you do not open your door again, got it?”

Still in a whisper, “yeah.”

“I love you, buddy.”

“luh-loo.”

I pulled his door shut, and tied a shirt sleeve around the knob, hoping to make it more difficult for Tyler to turn, should he disobey my orders. He didn’t, and he slept through the rest of the night, presumably in his bed.

Today, Sarah reversed the door knob so that we can lock him into his room. And, today, Tyler took an unheard-of three and a half hour nap.

We’re still smarter than you Tyler.

I’d like to say that I exude confidence. I really would like to say that. And maybe I do exude an air of knowing just what the hell I’m doing, because I do try to. But beneath my smiling exterior stands a fragile man, unsure of so many things. Worry eats at him daily. He barely treads water in the ever-thickening pool of anxiety. Masked with happiness, I’m scared. Scared of the unknown, scared of making the wrong decision, and mostly of not being able to provide for my family.

Those fears have cemented my feet and prevented me from doing anything differently than I have for the last three years.

I have a great job that does exactly what I need it to do; provide. We have a roof over our head, no shut-off notices (except for that one month that I forgot to pay the water bill, whoops), clothes on our backs, and food on the table. It also has its perks, with one of the biggest being that I set my own schedule. I can be home just about any time I want to. I can spend the entire afternoon with my family, so long as I get up early enough to get my hours in. I can take Friday off, if I’ve worked longer days the previous four. There’s a high level of flexibility, which is huge when you have a family.

But this was all supposed to be temporary.

I took this role for two reasons. To provide and to learn. This job afforded me the ability to put Sarah through school, with very, very little need of financial assistance. Provide… done. I won’t delve into the learning aspect, but suffice to say that, while learning never stops, I certainly feel that I’ve attained my goal, plus some. It turns out, though, that the whole “providing” thing never stops either. It evolves. When Sarah neared graduation, and we finally saw the pin-hole of light at the end of the tunnel, the decision was made to start a family. And that, my friends, is a lifelong commitment. One that I do not, and never will, regret. But partly because of that decision we decided to stay. Then we found another reason, then another, and then another.

The issue is that my current role required us to relocate. We live in a truly great little town, but it isn’t what Sarah and I consider to be our home. That place is two hours away. And while I’m sure that isn’t “far” by many standards, it is far enough for it to have an impact on our lives. Not all bad, but not all good either. After three years, it’s really taking its toll on me, which means it’s REALLY taking its toll on Sarah. We miss home, and everything it brings. Two things I will never miss, though, is the traffic on one particular street, and the mountains of “lake effect” snow that fall on “home” every year.

The opportunity to move back has been offered a few times. More than a few, to be perfectly honest. Deep down, I wanted to move back – WE wanted to move back – yet I turned them all down. We made excuses to keep everything the same. Moving down here was easy, because it was just Sarah and I; two able-bodied adults that can care for themselves and be accountable for their actions. The baggage we will be bringing back has a heartbeat and is one hundred percent dependent on us to do the right thing.

I took the first of many huge steps yesterday. I told my boss that I was ready and that I would like to talk about my options. I just hope this decision isn’t one opportunity too late.

So, now, one very small gear in a very large clock has begun to turn, and quite frankly, I’m scared.

One of my favorite things to do on a Sunday morning is read the newspaper. This doesn’t usually take much time. Aside from local news relating to my county, I typically just read a couple comic strips and peruse the ads. Anything newsworthy from a national or worldly level, I’ve already read online the day before.

A recent Sunday morning found Tyler sitting in his highchair with breakfast, while I settled into my newspaper reading routine. I prepared a wonderful meal of eggs, ham, and a pancake for my little man. And ketchup. He has to have ketchup to dip his eggs into. And his ham. And his pancake. He gets his taste for ketchup from his mother. I never use it, unless it comes pre-slopped on a Whopper. Otherwise, I don’t touch the stuff. I held onto a secret hope that Tyler wouldn’t like it the first time it was offered, but after personally witnessing him grab a handful of applesauce, dip it into ketchup, and slurp it into his mouth, my little bubble of hope burst ever so silently into an infinity of nothingness.

On this particular morning, Tyler brought his bottomless pit of a stomach to the table. He eats some meals then tells us that he’s all done. And he has some meals where we seriously start to wonder if he has forgotten how to say that he’s all done and is confusing that sign with “more”. This meal was the latter.

“More more more,” he would sign.

Wiggling both of my hands, I asked a leading question. “Are you sure you don’t mean ‘all done?’”

“More more more,” he signed again. This time he followed up by pointing to the bananas on the table.

“Do you want a banana?”

“Dath.”

To drive his point home, Tyler started bouncing in his chair. I peeled a banana, cut it in half and gave one of the two pieces to Tyler. I returned to the newspaper. I looked up after a few moments as I turned the page, and saw Tyler choking. I jumped up and ran to him. Before I got close enough to smash my hand into his back, he was able to dislodge the banana-mush on his own. I pondered exactly how many years have been subtracted from my life due to Tyler’s little escapade. One would think that Tyler would ruminate on the events that triggered his momentary choking. One would be wrong. Instead, Tyler went to work in cramming what was left of the banana into his mouth. And before he had a chance to chew it, he started pointing at the second half of the banana resting on the table.

To his credit, and much to my relief, Tyler took bites and chewed the second half. I watched Tyler adoringly as he took his final bite…

“More more more,” he signed.

I know I lied about this once before*, but I’m serious this time. Tyler needs real surgery.

After three courses of antibiotic treatments, some chiropractic visits, probiotic supplements and crossed fingers, Tyler’s ear digging continues.

At his last appointment, our doctor grimaced when she looked into his ears. She referred us (I say "us", but I was working, so it was Sarah and Tyler) to an ENT (ear, nose and throat specialist) who got us in for a same-day consultation. After reviewing Tyler’s history with Sarah, he took a peek into Tyler’s ears and the decision was made.

I can’t say I’m surprised, because Sarah had multiple ear surgeries as a child, and her dad also had ear problems as a youngster. So, deep down, I had a feeling fear that we would end up down this road.

The surgery itself isn’t a very big deal. The surgeon will cut a tiny, tiny hole in each eardrum, then place a tiny, tiny straw into each hole. This will then allow air into his ears so that the goop in there can dry up and/or drain out. Going under the knife before he’s even a year old is unfortunate, but necessary. The "knife" part isn’t what concerns me; it’s the "going under" part. The very day that the ENT tells us Tyler needs surgery, I see this article online. If you don’t want to read the article, here’s a snippet:

Now a new study from the Mayo Clinic, published on March 24 in the journal Anesthesiology, finds a link between exposure to anesthesia during surgery in infancy and learning disabilities later in life — the first such study to do so in humans — making the decision to operate even more fraught for both parents and doctors.

The article goes on to say that this is very preliminary data, and that they aren’t sure if there is a definitive link or if there’s just an association. Essentially, the takeaway from the article is "don’t worry… yet."

There’s nothing I can do about it, and I know it seems trivial to worry over something as simple as getting ear tubes, but I suspect that’s all part of being a parent.

I wonder if I can talk the surgeon into injecting some type of superhuman powers into Tyler… just a thought.

Sarah and I decided to put a garden in this year. We have a decent sized yard, so we measured out a six foot by twenty-four foot area for the garden. The neighbor told us that the ground in their yard was very rocky, so they built a raised garden. I’m a fan of learning from the mistakes of others, so we decided on a raised garden as well. I purchased the lumber and cut it to size two weeks ago.

The frame of the garden.
 
The frame would be built with two inch thick by eight inch high wood. After making the box, I would cut a bunch of 2x4s two foot in length, and make points on one end of them, effectively making wooden stakes. It was while making the stakes that the first accident happened. Those that follow me on Twitter and Facebook already know what transpired. In the monotony of cutting, turning the saw off, removing the scrap wood, and turning the saw on again, at one point I forgot the crucial step of killing the power before reaching into the saw for the scrap wood. The pain I felt as the blade tore into the flesh of my thumb was immense.

I’ve often wondered how one could make a stupid mistake with a power tool that would result in a missing digit. Well, it seemed that fate aimed to satisfy my curiosity on that day. Now, I couldn’t tell you if it was divine intervention, pure luck, or super-human reflexes that saved me from going on a scavenger hunt for my thumb, but I was saved the trauma of a self amputation. I yanked my hand back with a speed I was unaware of being capable of. The resultant injury was a gash the width of a circular saw blade, and about as thick. And a lot of blood, but I finished the frame. 

 
The next step was to lie cardboard and newspaper down,to act as a weed barrier and organic material for the soil. We did this yesterday before the seven tons of soil delivered. While we did this, Tyler took the opportunity to try to eat rocks and gravel.

My garden helpers.

Tyler helped.

Here’s what 14 THOUSAND pounds of dirt looks like.

Barely made a freaking dent in the mountain of dirt.

The garden itself only needed five tons of dirt to fill it. The additional two tons would be used to level the ground in the yard. We had some bushes removed last year which left divots and dips in the ground. And the truck that delivered the dirt was quite heavy as well, leaving two-inch deep tire marks in the lawn that needed to be filled.

As I shoveled away at the mountain of dirt, Sarah, Tyler and Delilah had a picnic outside to keep me company. Delilah found a stick and obviously had some pent-up energy to get out. She began running laps around the garage. I have honestly never seen a dog that could run as fast as she can; it’s unnatural and freakish to watch. She came tearing around the corner, full tilt and must not have seen where she was going. Delilah plowed into Tyler and sent him rolling across the yard. It was very surreal for a moment, and I found myself asking if that really just happened. Delilah knew she was in trouble. She lay down and rolled onto her back when I roared her name. The fury I felt almost overtook the fear I felt for Tyler. Almost. Her submissive action probably saved her life just then; it’s one of her endearing qualities, and cemented my initial belief that it was a complete accident. Although I’m sure shock played a part of it, I’ve no doubt that Tyler’s screams were those of pain, and I ran to him and Sarah.

Sarah held Tyler tight against her body as he screamed, telling him everything was ok, and it was an accident. Tyler was facing the opposite direction. I ran around Sarah so that he could see my face while I comforted him. His eyes were tightly shut with tears running down his face, and…

"He’s bleeding," I said urgently.

"Oh Jesus," Sarah said, pulling Tyler away from her so we could get a better look at him. He had a stream of blood coming from his nose. Panicked, we ran into the house. Delilah never budged.

Tyler screamed even louder when we tried washing the blood off his face. Whether it was from pain or the fact that he doesn’t like getting his face washed, I’m not sure. Either way, it hurt me in the heart to see Tyler in pain. I held Tyler while Sarah attempted to put a cold pack on his nose, which he definitely did not enjoy. He finally calmed enough for us to give him a quick "once over". He had a bump on his head, and his nose wasn’t broken. As a matter of fact, it had stopped bleeding. Sarah took him into the other room to give him the only pain reliever that is guaranteed to work… cuddles on the couch.

I went back outside to tell Delilah that I knew it was an accident, but that she has to keep her eyes on Tyler’s level now and not up in the air at Sarah and I. Then I went back to shoveling before the forecasted rain could make it to our home. Shortly thereafter, Tyler went up for a nap. Sarah came out and helped me with some shoveling and wheelbarrowing. Sarah had the forethought to open the second level windows so we could hear Tyler when he woke up.

Five hours of shoveling and elbow grease later.
 
When he did, Sarah brought him outside again to show him the garden. He grabbed a handful of dirt and tried to eat it. Sarah grabbed his hand and said something like "ucky, Tyler." Tyler grabbed another handful, and Sarah intercepted its path to his mouth as well. And this is when I saw the devious side of Tyler. He grabbed another handful of dirt, but this time used the other hand – the one that Sarah couldn’t see – and put it in his mouth. He reached for more dirt when I said "Other hand, Sarah."

Eating rocks and dirt, check. Bloody nose, check. All this before he’s walking, no less. What’s next on the boyhood checklist, eating worms, sticking a metal object in a wall outlet, or trying to cram a sandwich into the DVD player? Care to guess which two of those three things I’ve done? I’ll give you a hint, we didn’t have a DVD player when I was a child.

Note: The next project will be putting up a 6 foot tall privacy fence so that we don’t have to look at the poorly maintained yard next door.

Sarah and I were taking Tyler for a walk last week. We were walking down 7th Street, which is the main drag of our quaint little town. To our left, we could see the water tower.

Before I continue, sorry the ADHD is taking hold, I have to say this. They (they being an unknown entity) painted the water tower recently. I noticed that they put on a primer coat of gray paint. That seemed to take a couple weeks. I remember, one day, they had some type of cloth cover over the whole thing. Well, I was driving home a few days ago and, ALL OF A SUDDEN, I see that the entire thing had gotten it’s final coat. How the heck did they do that so quickly? There isn’t any lettering on the top of the tower yet, and I really don’t know if they will put anything there. I wouldn’t be surprised to see something up there that mentions the ACD Museum. Maybe “Auburn, it’s a Deusey! nyuk nyuk nyuk”

Anyway, we’re going for a walk and I look at the water tower. That’s when it dawned on me that I have to teach Tyler EVERYTHING I know. He’s going to ask me what the stars are, how door locks work, how to tie a knot, how to drive, how plants grow… everything. I got scared.

Tyler was awake at the time, so I started talking. I figured I better start now, because I’ve got a lot of stuff to go over with him over the next 80 years or so.

“Tyler, that’s a water tower. There’s about a million gallons of water in there. See, big pumps push the water up into the tower. Gravity tries pulling the water back down some other pipes in the tower. This creates water pressure. Those pipes go everywhere, including to our house. When we turn a faucet on, the force of gravity pushing on the water in the tower pushes it through all the pipes and out the faucet.”

Tyler didn’t seem to care. I may have to explain that to him again in a few years. I did get a reaction from Sarah though. She said, “Wow, I didn’t even know that”.

Of course, my ego shot up a hundred-fold, so I followed up with, “Yeah, that’s why we can still get water when the power goes out. There’s usually a full day’s worth up there.”

The problem is, there’s a lot… a LOT… that I don’t know. Tyler won’t ask me easy stuff, like “how do you tie a shoe?” or “where is the ground?”. He’s going to ask stuff I have no knowledge of. I don’t mind saying “I don’t know” a few times, but I’m scared that I may be saying it over and over again to some of his questions. I’m going to have to make a list of the things he asks me, get on google when he goes to bed, and get some answers for him for the next day.

I could always just take the easy way out and say “it’s magic” to all his questions. I think I could get away with that for a while, right?

“Dad, how do they get the people inside the TV?”

“It’s magic, son. Magic.”

“How do cars work, daddy?”

“That’s magic also, boy.”

“Where to babies come from?”

“From dark magic, Tyler. Voodoo stuff.”